There's
this funny looking anorexic girl that shares my lunch. While she doesn't
exactly sit with me, she sits at the table behind me, and her voice is
certainly loud enough to reach me – god, it's fucking loud enough to reach the
next school. Her name is Christen. Or Christy. Now Christy is a religious girl
who hangs out with a bunch of fags; it was just a matter of time before she
became suicidal. Every lunch, she would make a big deal about being fat, or
hating her parents, or wanting to kill herself – and it wasn't as if she was
creative about it or anything. Or discreet. God no, she was the anti-discreet. She
told everyone in that god-fucking-awful-obnoxious loud voice of hers every
god-fucking-awful lunch exactly how long it had been since she last ate, or
exactly when and how she was going to end her god-fucking-awful life.

It wasn't
as if she had a good plan about it or anything, either. I heard her today talk
about killing herself this coming Sunday by, - listen to this – slashing her
throat. Now honestly – if you're going to go through all that trouble of
killing yourself, you might as well use a fool-proof method. Does she know how
faulty that method is? Not only would she have to cut like, four inches into her
neck, – which is unlikely – she would have to lie there bleeding for a good
four, five, six hours and not have anyone find her. The fucktard.

So while
her friends were away from her later that day, I walked up close behind her in
the crowded hallways and said, as loud as I could, "God, move you're fucking fat ass, will
you?" After which she turned around and gave me this obnoxious 'are you
talking to me?' look before I continued. "Yes, you, flubber-face. Go drown yourself with the other whales, or maybe
just jump in front of a fucking truck. Either way, get the fuck out of my way. And off of my Earth, fatty."

Unfortunately,
Christy is very close friends with the vice-principal.

Two days
later, I was having a rather thorough "talk" with my parents in the
counselor's office. It was Friday, and I was rather pissed about this. You see,
I was missing my favorite television show rerun I watched every Friday at 4:00PM. Or so I kept telling my parents. They,
as it turned out, didn't care – and
were pissier than me.

The meeting
itself was actually quite funny. The counselor gave my parents and I a thorough
run-through of what constituted violence ("any mean word, look or sign
that hurts a person's body, feelings or things") and then went on to
discuss what a horribly disturbed and mental unstable child poor Christy was.
She then gave us (mostly my parents) a decent run-through of what I did. Then
came the parents' glares and the inevitable "Why?"

Obviously,
it would not come off well if I told them, the bitch made herself vulnerable so
I took the opportunity. In fact, I should try to avoid the fact that I knew she
was anorexic and suicidal beforehand. Alas, I took the situation into stride.
"I don't know. I was aggravated, I was late to class. This – Christy? was
walking slow. I had a head ache – I've been having a lot of headaches, lately –
and this girl was just pushing it. I don't know. I've just felt really
impatient and moody lately, and this girl – Christy? –was a good outlet."

It made my
insides squiggle when the counselor's eyes softened from accusing-to-concerned.
"Impatient and moody? And headaches? Anything particular on your
mind?"

My mother
rested a hand on my shoulder, her eyes equally concerned. I tried my best not
to shake the hand off, to gag and spit on her. I calmed myself by imagining a
bullet through her eyes. "Simon, honey, are you
watching your glucose levels?"

"Right
mom," I now shrugged her hand
off theatrically to match the sarcasm in my voice. "Sure, diabetics can't
be depressed. They just need more insulin. Then all their troubles go
away."

"I
didn't mean –"

The
counselor gave my mom a nod – as if she needed permission to stop acting so
nauseatingly motherly. "Perhaps Simon and I should have a private talk. If
you mind, Mr. and Mrs. Somough?"

My parents
left, their faces deep in thought. What did they do wrong? How could they miss
the fact that their son is depressed? Are they terrible parents? It tickled me.
I'm loved. I turned to my counselor. She suggested that she go over a few basic
questions so she knew I wasn't about to kill myself/kill others ("do you
want to kill yourself?" "do you want to kill others?"). I lied
on most. At the conclusion, she looked at me quizzically and asked me if I
really did know what was bothering me.

I twitched
my eyebrows together and lowered my voice – both for dramatic effect, and
because I knew my parents were trying to listen in on our conversation.
"Yes, actually. It's been bothering me for a while, now." I paused,
enjoying her expression of anticipation. She lived for moments like these. I
took a deep breath: fuck, it worked for that
Desperate Housewives kid, right? "I think I may be gay."

The
counselor leaned back in her chair, trying her best to conceal her smile. I was
much more successful in holding mine in for when she called in my parents, told
them the news and gave us reference phone numbers for future counseling, should
we need it. The car ride come was deathly quiet. I liked it.

After the
weekend, on Monday, I felt pleasantly refreshed. At lunch, Christy wasn't
there.

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